Wild Country

Chapter Sixty-Six

He met one more perimeter guard, who jumped and then grinned sheepishly, before striking out onto the prairie. Though only a mediocre tracker, Quantrill knew enough to think like a fugitive and to estimate the path a smart, desperate man might take. The subtle contours of the prairie would not let a man cross it unseen while walking upright; But if he could run while squatting, and crawl like a boomer lizard, yes; a man like Sorel might just possibly get away to the southwest. A man who was essentially a transplanted big-city cop — Bonner, for example — might not realize it was possible. Yet it might have been possible for Quantrill — and therefore possible for Felix Sorel.

The scuffmarks behind one long, low prominence might have been made by anybody a week before. Squatting near, Quantrill studied a faint indentation and, less than a meter away, a fainter broad groove. He got down beside it on hands and knees and found that if his toe matched the first indentation, his knee might have scuffed the second. He muttered, "Hurt like hell when you banged your knee, Sorel? Good."

He walked another fifty meters. From there he could see the rooftops of Soho, three kilometers or so to the northwest. Sorel would've seen them, too. With more than a ten-minute head start, plus another ten to the present moment, a man might make his way below Soho into Wild Country. The mating-tyrannosaur howl of a little Spitfire pierced the aching stillness, a warning to anyone who might be hiding below. Know what I'd do, Sorel? With those little Spits boring holes in the sky overhead, I'd try to come around from the southwest and hole up in Soho 'til dark. Maybe find me a hostage and strike a bargain for a fast vehicle. Can you fly light aircraft, good buddy? I'm betting you can.

It was a long walk to Soho's front entrance. Twice, Quantrill waved as Spitfires caterwauled overhead, removing his tin star, waving it aloft. A brief wing-waggle and the lovely little brutes were gone. He knew better than to continue the path he would have taken, had he been in Sorel's position. Best way in the world to get himself drygulched. You don't really think Sorel is working his way back to the airstrip, sneaking into Soho to lie tow until dark, do you? Yes, you damned well do. Sorel wants a fast ticket to the border, just like Lufo does. Well, good luck to you, Lufo—I wish you were my backup right now.

Quantrill found no one manning the black iron gates that stretched across the mouth of what, a few meters inside the compound, became Brewer Street. He monkeyed over, dropping easily to the street. Nobody shouted, nobody complained. Don't these people know there's a war on? Well, not until after lunch. He nailed the first person he saw at the corner of Brewer and Lexington: a short, well-padded young woman wearing a frilled apron who was spearing bits of trash from the edge of the sidewalk. She took his star at face value. Where was the nearest security man?

"You're new, aren't you?" She had the flat twang of a midwesterner, the sparkle of an actress as she sized him up. "I'm Kitty — Kitty here," she went on, suddenly switching to a passable Cockney accent, "and in the pub. Off duty, I'm Kathy Diehl. You can call me Good." she added, once more Americanized. "Hey, you know you've got blood on your chin?"

"Yeah, I know. Kitty-Kathy, I need somebody in security. We can talk later."

A winsome pout: "Our ha, ha, constables took off on the bus. I think they were going to Faro for something or other. They'll have to come back after lunch. Meanwhile" — she clicked back into the Brit argot with bewildering ease—"soon as I've policed this area, ducks, I'll draw you a pint of bitter while you wait. 'Ow's that for an offer?"

Grinning in spite of everything, Quantrill shook his head. "You're a pistol, lady, but those cops of yours are probably going on guard duty in Faro when I might need 'em here. I'll take a raincheck on the beer. Look, where is everybody?

There's an armed fugitive. WML — white male, latino — who may be hiding out here. My size, black hair—"

"Your hair is black," she said.

"It's dyed. So is his come to think of it." Kitty-Kathy was now beginning to look as though she would like to disappear from this bloody-faced man into the nearest crevice. He drew the Chiller. "Don't jump like that, for God's sake. They don't let fugitives have stars and weapons like this, okay? If you have some way to contact others here, tell 'em how I'm dressed and to avoid anybody they don't know by sight. Except me. I'm wearing the white hat."

"No, you're not," low and quivering. Now she seemed ready to burst into tears.

Reseating the Chiller, he put his hands before him as if shaking an invisible melon. "Don't go bonkers on me lady." he said passionately. "Where the hell is everybody?"

"Prob'ly cleaning up at Soho Square, and some guys on Wardour Street resetting the falling building." she said, still staring at his right armpit. "Is that one of those government guns?"

Shouting: "Yes! Where the eternal fuck is Soho Square?"

"About four blocks, turn left at Frith. Can't miss it. You always talk dirty when you're mad?" Now she looked hopeful. It appeared that Kitty-Kathy could snap from one emotion to another as easily as she could adjust her accent.

He began walking backward. "If you're smart, you'll take off on foot for the New Driskill. If you're dumb, you could be a hostage." He pointed a finger at her. "You, I will never forget. But I'm going to try," he muttered to himself, and began to run down Brewer. Hostages are just our speed, aren't they, ol' buddy? Guys our size need little ones. Small enough to intimidate, but not too small to hide behind…

Soho Square, evidently, was a sort of tourist promenade. It sure had its share of trash, which a grounds crew was fast removing. Five men and three women, all dressed in Brit shopkeeper garb, went about their duties, paying little attention to Quantrill until he asked for it. None of them had seen any strangers in the past half hour. They, too, accepted the star as his authority.

One tall, wiry fellow seemed to know everything about Soho. Since most of the "shops" were false, the daytime crew involved an even dozen people clearing the streets and then straightening their shops; this crew of eight who converged on Soho Square before doing room service chores at various locations; and a pair of special effects men. Quantrill asked about that pair.

"They haul the cornice and bricks and stuff back to the roof and set it up for the falling building. Realistic as hell; it's over on Wardour," he said, pointing. "You must be new. Got a map?" He pulled a fold-out brochure from the pocket of a vest shiny with use.

Quantrill sighed, took the map, and said it very slowly: "I am a federal agent, God help us all. My name is Quantrill. I want you to find everyone who works here, and carry any weapons you happen to have in plain sight, and all of you walk together out of Soho to the hotels. Tell the security people what I'm telling you: nobody comes in here except federal agents. I'd rather be safe than sorry; a man who looks a lot like me could be hiding here. He is very, very dangerous, and if he gets half a chance, he will take hostages. Go in groups, go now, and if you see anyone you don't know, you'd better hope he doesn't see you. And if you see a short stack named Kitty on the way, boot her butt over the gate with you. I want Soho absolutely deserted in two minutes. Understood?"

The wiry one brought his little trash sticker up like a lance. "Where're you going?"

"To the falling building on Wardour. Not your worry; I'll find it. Go on, git." They got.

The map was a godsend. Wardour led him to the southwest, the narrow street dead-ending in a three-story pile of debris. A block nearer, someone had stretched a modem cable across to bar the way. A hand-lettered sign hung from the cable, warning of deadly hazard. And mounted on a tripod near the sidewalk, farther on, was another sign: UXB. All very realistic; no sensible tourists would venture into this last block, particularly when they came to see the top of a building tumble into the street. Quantrill stood listening to a prairie wind keen across the rooftops of Soho and let the place sink into his pores. You're here, Sorel. I can feel you. And you can probably feel me. Is your ass snipping holes in your shorts? Probably not. Mine is, and it doesn't make me like you just a whole lot.

Somewhere above and to the left, he could hear voices calling. The echoes garbled their content, but they carried rebellious overtones. Great; he would have to interrupt an argument among men at work.

Quantrill hopped over the cable. The Chiller was in his left hand as he moved from doorway to shopfront, maximizing his cover, eyes roving to the high ground of rooftops across the street. Up there it was sniper country. Voices again, almost directly above him now. Then a hammer of several shots, thin reports like a small-caliber automatic, punctuated by a single report, shockingly loud. Instantly, someone screamed amid a scurry of activity.

Somewhere in the building above him, footsteps pounded nearer. Quantrill moved into shadow, set the Chiller on full auto, and waited.

A door at street level burst open not five meters from where he stood and two men stumbled out, both darting fearful glances up the steep stairs behind the door. One held his side just below his rib cage, grimacing, blood already beginning to stain his one-piece coverall. They turned toward Quantrill and stopped as they saw him, the barrel of his Chiller vertical, his right index finger across his lips. He half expected to hear more feet coming down that stairwell. No joy. He motioned the men nearer, into the safety of a false stone storefront, and they came willingly once they spotted that tin star.

Quietly: "You're the special effects men?"

The uninjured one, a heavyset black, nodded and then jerked a thumb upward. "There's one bad sonofabitch up there on level two. Threw down on us while—"

"I can guess. Wanted you for hostages."

"You got it," muttered the injured man. an Anglo of slight build. He peeled his bloody hand away, looked down, grimaced. "Told me to come down alone to second level."

"Sounds like he has more than one weapon."

"Guess he does now," said the black. "You did right. Kenny," he added, patting the little man's shoulder.

The injured man explained, "I had my nailgun when he snuck up on us from below." He saw Quantrill's frown.

"Like a big staple gun. It'll carry fifty feet. Guess he didn't know what it was."

"Sure found out when you squeezed it off," said his companion with fond pride in his gaze.

"And the fucker made me sorry. Shot me, damn true. I dropped the nailgun over the catwalk, so I guess he's got it."

Quantrill: "Hit him?"

"Shit, I wasn't really tryin' to."

"How many rounds are left in that nailgun?"

"Eight or ten. Jeez, this hurts."

Quantrill looked at the big man. "Take him out of Soho the front way and keep going. Check in with security and give 'em the word. Do any of these other doors open?"

"They do with this," said the big man, and handed Quantrill a master key. Supporting his friend, he started down Wardour and then stopped. "Aren't you comin'?"

Quantrill shook his head and glanced upward. "You're civilians, and your buddy's hit. Felix Sorel has just rewritten my contract," he said.